Monthly Archives: July 2013

This is why I write

“…this is a story about how I learned something and I’m not saying this thing is true or not, I’m just saying it’s what I learned.

I told you something. It was just for you and you told Everybody. So I learned cut out the middle man, make it all for Everybody, always. Everybody can’t turn around and tell Everybody—Everybody already knows, I told them.

But this means there isn’t a place in my life for you or someone like you. Is it sad? Sure. But it’s a sadness I chose…”


Thoughts, just over a month out

It’s my last week in Houston, my last week of normalcy, really—where I have a bed and a car and a washing machine and so many really close friends within walking distance.

I am surprisingly calm. I don’t think it’s hit me yet, and I’m hoping to keep it that way for as long as possible. (So, maybe 3 more days?)

This past weekend four of us took a roadtrip. This picture was snapped at 8AM, two hours after the start of our day and however silly it is, I just love how authentically happy I look… and I can’t really remember the last specific time when that was the case.

I am going to miss this life, these people.


The Last Time

You don’t like it when I use the word crazy, but that’s mostly how I feel.

Not lobotomy crazy (which I think is the connotation you object to), but the arguably worse kind—irrational, emotional, crazy-girl crazy.

At best, I am accidentally sending mixed signals. I have trouble with change, remember? And everything happened so fast. I didn’t say the right things, or ask the right questions, and now I feel lost. I am hurt, and while I am trying, I can’t seem to get my head and my heart onto the same page. When did you become someone I am afraid to talk to?

At worst, I am an uncontrollable mess. You treat me gently, kind of like I have some sort of communicable disease, or like I am an especially needy child—and after everything we’ve been through, this is the worst part.


Yesterday, I read an opinion piece denouncing travel. Which, for about 3 hours, made me question everything. And then I got past it, only to have the piece pointed out to me again today by one of my closest friends.

“There’s a big difference between wanting a change in scenery and some new experiences vs. needing to run away from a prison of your own making.”

I agree with this, the excerpt so lovingly picked out for me by said closest friend, but I also disagree with the overarching view of the author that “There is nothing inherently valuable in travel.”

No doubt, I was in a much more stable mental state when I first made my travel decision. (Though perhaps you could argue that no truly mentally stable person would ever make this sort of decision in the first place.) But does that mean that adding in this heartache, this sadness, this crazy makes my trip less acceptable now?

I am running, if that’s what you want to call it. But I don’t necessarily think that making an active choice to take a break from a place with few opportunities left for professional and personal growth should be put in that category.

I think this year will be valuable beyond measure. And one can always come back.


For another $110, she tells me that I will outgrow you, that this trip will change me, and that you will fade. And it is up to me, really, to determine exactly what you—what we—will fade into.

And as much as I don’t really want that right now, at $110, I kind of hope she is right.

Thoughts, 50 days out

My ticket is bought and I am starting to feel ready, even if my backpack is far from full. (At least I’ve finally gotten it to actually fit me right!)

The past few days have left a rancid taste in my mouth and it makes me sad that I am letting this bitterness mar my memory of Houston, my memory of you.

It’s funny to think about it, but I have 20 days to wrap up the last three years of my life. And as things wind down imperfectly, I feel fairly confident in finally admitting that I think this is the end of my love affair with Houston. I don’t think I’ll be back.

But I’m worried this hurt will cause a scar that I can’t run from, and it will color my trip with distrust and harden my heart to the people and places that I want to let consume me.

That being said, I am working on re-framing. I’m not ready to call this battle over yet.


If I knew last year where I would end up this year, I wouldn’t change anything.

I tell you this on my birthday after you make me breakfast, when it is absolutely true, before it all falls apart.

You are the one who believes in judging action over intention, and this time, I can’t help but feel that you’re right.

In my head, we are on a Cinderella timeline, and the only way I can possibly forgive you is before midnight. I am waiting for you to pull out some magic to save this day, to save us.

I spend the hours I wait for you stuffing my broken heart with inflated expectations. A temporary fix, just for today, just because I know that if I don’t, then I have to start coping with the fact that it is already over.

It is my fault as much as yours. I guess I spent the last six months slowly hammering your pedestal back together, while you spent it tiptoeing around, refusing to fall and waiting for the end.

Deflated, my heart feels hard and heavy, causing a dull throbbing in my chest that I can’t ignore.

I don’t know where to go from here.